As afternoon approaches a truckload of flowers arrive with the instruction to place them in the boat house. The same boat house that looks like someone set off an orgy-bomb in it. The one that, with all the other things that have had to happen today, I haven’t had a chance to clean up. When I phone Christian to check the arrangements in the vain hope that the boat house option was about storage and not a full on romantic tryst he balls me out about being obstructive. As the line goes dead I place my phone on the lawn in front of me and begin to manically jump and dance around it giving it the finger while I quietly and intensively use the in-out word translated into every language I speak – and a few that I don’t. Gretchen is sweeping up the back patio and watching me with her head tilted to one side. Oh, who the hell cares what the hired help thinks.